Mnemosyne
by AndromedaStarr
Summary: Sequel to The Goren Knot. Goren is under the influence. Logan takes him home. Will Logan's past get in the way of his potential happiness or can he forget and step into the future? Slash.
1. Chapter 1

The enigmatic and infinitely knowledgeable Detective Robert Goren is the very model of an eccentric genius. A six-four giant with a knack for getting confessions out of suspects, his personality amounts to a wondrous cluster of tics and compulsions. He speaks in an odd combination of stutter and fluency and often comes off as a psychopath masquerading as a detective rather than the brilliant, slightly unhinged man he really is. He is ornate and complex. An intense, intelligent and intellectual man, he's made barely controlled gesticulation into an art form.

Detective Robert Goren, where he lies on the couch sleeping off the effects of too much alcohol, is at absolute peace with the universe. For Mike Logan, owner of the aforesaid couch, nothing could be further from the truth.

How Goren comes to be sleeping on this dark blue couch is a long story. It involves a collar, a confession and Barek suggesting - innocently enough, or so Logan thought at the time - that they go out to celebrate. The suggestion was met with wholehearted approval from all sides, and before Logan could blink twice he was seated in an Irish pub knocking back beer after beer with his partner and the dynamic duo of Eames and Goren. The girls swiftly proved they could drink anyone under the table, and Logan sat by in awe as Goren proceeded to consume vast amounts of alcohol and remain mostly coherent. Eames wheedled her way out early, claiming she wanted to go see her nephew before she became totally knackered, and Barek followed shortly after with some inane excuse about an early-morning date the next day.

Which left Logan, who was by then still mostly sober, with Goren. If Goren ever tired of being a detective he could easily become a tailor with his skill for spinning yarns, Logan mused, watching the other man entertain half the bar with a tale concerning a vintage car, a chainsaw and a probably mythical psychotic ex-girlfriend. He had reached what was likely the climax of the story when Logan decided he'd had enough.

"Bobby," he said, leaning forward. "You've had enough."

The crowd around Goren groaned in dismay, and the man himself looked bemused. He gestured to the ten or eleven beer bottles on the table and the cluster of empty shot glasses. "Come on, Mikey," he said, slurring his name ever so slightly in what struck Logan as the most adorable way. "It can't be time to go yet."

Logan checked his watch. "It's nearly eleven." He stood, realizing that the only way to get Goren out of the bar was to do it himself, and plucked the last half-empty bottle from the detective's left hand. "Come on. Get up."

Goren stood, swaying a little, and nodded genially to his captivated audience. "Sorry I can't stay to tell you the rest." He took a few steps, then frowned and looked down at his feet. "Mikey, I don't think they're paying attention to my brain."

Logan bit back a snort of laughter and slung one of Goren's heavy arms around his shoulders. "I'll take you to my place," he said, slapping money down on the bar for their drinks and heading with his wayward companion to the door as best he could with two hundred and thirty extra pounds wrapped around his neck. "It's about a block from here. You live across town - I don't think I trust you to take a cab home, you'd probably pass out in the backseat..."

"I'm not drunk," Goren said, stumbling slightly over an irregularity in the pavement. "To be drunk means to be sufficiently intoxicated with alcohol to the extent that mental and motor functioning are impaired."

"And this is not impairment of motor functioning?" Logan's knees buckled as Goren tripped again and he managed to straighten up only with difficulty. "Bobby, you're falling down all over the street."

"Details, details." Goren's hand gripped Logan's shoulder tightly as he made a concerted effort not to weave too much. "How much do I owe you?" he asked, his words running into each other. "For the drinks?"

"Forget it," Logan told him more roughly than he meant to. In the near distance he could see the steps of his apartment building, the towering structure looming over them in a welcoming way that gave him the warm fuzzies. At eleven o'clock in the night, the streets of Manhattan were not where he wanted to be. "We're almost there."

"My hero," Goren mumbled with what could have been inebriated sarcasm.

Logan practically threw the detective up the stairs. "Try not to make the entire place smell like beer, will you?"


	2. Chapter 2

Getting Goren up the stairs was more work than Logan had anticipated. Goren had the edge on him by two inches and maybe twenty pounds, and most of that was uncoordinated mass. Logan ended up bruising his knee and knocking an elbow hard on the railing just getting the detective up to his fourth floor apartment, and succeeded in cracking his head on a wall trying to guide Goren to the couch.

"Sorry," Goren managed as he sank down into the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm great." Logan felt his temple rather gingerly and tried not to wince as his not-so-tender ministrations sent a stabbing pain through his head. "You need to sleep, Bobby."

"I'm okay here." Goren managed to get his shoes off and lying back, swung his legs up on the couch. "Feels good," he said after a moment. "Comfy."

"Come on, sit up a second." Logan caught Goren's arm, pulling him up into a half-sitting position. "Help me get your jacket off." Together they were able to remove the offending garment and to take off Goren's tie. Having unbuttoned the detective's collar and his shirt cuffs, Logan finally let him lie back down. "You're taking tomorrow off as a sick day," Logan informed Goren, who was already drifting off and who could do little more than grunt in assent.

That is how Goren comes to be sleeping on this dark blue couch. And it's half past two in the morning and Logan hasn't slept. He can't. Where he sits in the armchair across from the couch, his eyes are fixed on the tousled hair of his guest, the long eyelashes that lie against smooth cheeks, the full, slightly parted lips. Goren looks utterly peaceful - as secure as a baby in his mother's arms.

Logan wants to touch him, to run his fingers through Goren's graying dark hair, to smooth the lines that score his forehead, to lightly trace the curve of that lower lip. But chances are that Goren is going to wake up very soon, which means that Logan should leave and close the door very softly behind him. Because if Logan in one of his drunk and famously loquacious moments ever admits that he sat there and simply watched Bobby Goren sleep for hours, Logan is likely to be shot by Eames. Twice. Possibly three times.

But Logan doesn't move, because with the faint moonlight streaming in through the window Goren's face is the most arrestingly beautiful he has ever seen. His eyes follow the even features, the slight upward curve of the chin, the strong column of neck down to broad shoulders in a shirt that is the light blue of the November sky. He wonders what Goren's chest must look like under that shirt.

Goren sleeps in a funny position, with one knee bent, the foot flat on the couch, and the other leg stretched out. One arm is thrown up over the armrest, the other curled against his body. He has broad hands, impossibly long fingers. The faintest shiver courses Logan's spine as he imagines how those fingers could torture him so sweetly -

"Mike?" It is a groggy whisper, uttered in a soft, milky voice that tries its hardest to make Logan melt and almost succeeds. Goren's heavy-lidded brown eyes are open a fraction. He stretches his enormous body, and Logan wishes he were the couch that Goren is lying on. "What time is it?"

"It's quarter to three," Logan says. "You drank too much, I brought you back to my place."

"I remember." Goren lies still for a moment, his eyes closed as though he is trying to come back to himself. "How's your head?"

"It's been better," Logan tells him dryly, and suddenly realizes he has to come up with an excuse for watching Goren sleep. "I was about to wake you up, get you some coffee. Stuff's good for a hangover."

"I don't have a hangover." Slowly Goren pushes himself up to a sitting position. "It's in my genes, the ability to drink as much as I want and not want to die the next morning." He rubs his forehead, further mussing his hair until Logan thinks it's impossible for him to look any more adorable. "But coffee sure sounds good."

Logan goes to the kitchen and leans his head against the cool stainless steel of his refrigerator. He isn't sure precisely what it is about Bobby Goren that gets to him like this, or even if it's anything specific at all. He has an idea that perhaps it's the very essence of the man that has somehow insinuated itself into his veins and is now absolutely refusing to budge.

Carefully, taking his time and counting his movements in a fit of regression - Logan had OCD as a child but grew out of it by ten - he puts on the percolator and sets out two cups on the counter. It is, after all, rude to let Goren drink alone.

"Mike." Goren is standing in the doorway. He is so tall and so broad that he fills it almost entirely. He has taken off his socks and stands on the cool tiles in his bare feet. "Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, it's right there." Logan points to the door, trying his hardest not to look at the other man, and breathes a sigh of relief when Goren is gone. It is a wrong move, however - the smell of alcohol, mingled with cologne and cigarettes, is in the air, and Logan has a feeling that that scent is going to stay with him long after Goren himself is gone. The brewing coffee adding to the very Goren-ness of the aroma does not help matters, and Logan leans on the counter with a hopeless sigh.

"Smells good." Goren has materialized soundlessly in the doorway again, and Logan does a double-take when he sees that the detective is wearing a robe. _His_ robe. His long, dark blue robe, belted at the waist and exposing more of Goren's chest than Logan has ever been conscious to see before in his life. With some difficulty he tears his eyes away and pours coffee for them both. "Milk, no sugar," Goren says without being asked. He leans idly against the doorframe, but his eyes are bleary and Logan knows he's probably feeling the effects of the alcohol, albeit not in direct hangover form.

Logan holds out the coffee and the twelve-ounce cup almost disappears in Goren's gigantic hands. Hoisting his own coffee - the exact opposite of Goren's, sugar but no milk - he makes for the living room but stops when he realizes that Goren, who is taking up far more than his share of the doorway, hasn't moved. He looks at the detective, who merely returns his gaze with what looks like gentle laughter in his sleepy eyes, and resigns himself to the idea of having to squeeze past.

Goren takes the cup from Logan, sets it down on a table in the living room and turns back to him. Waiting, Logan knows, to see what he will do. Whether he will take the bait. And he does, turning to face Goren and somehow managing to edge himself between the detective's barrel chest and the wall.

It's a tight fit. And Logan would happily stay there for the rest of his life, because with the whole front of his body pressed against Goren's, their faces are so close that it would take movement of only inches to kiss him. Thinking about the last kiss they shared, Logan feels his cheeks burn. There is no feeling quite like having one's back against a wall, one's head in a fog of desire and one's mouth being assaulted by Bobby Goren.

Goren, bless him and damn him, has one hand on either side of Logan's head. "Why are you so afraid?" he asks softly, his eyes holding Logan's. "What indignities did you suffer that make you so unwilling? Or should I ask what ecstasies you've experienced that make you so ashamed?"

Logan closes his eyes, and in a rush of sounds and voices, it all comes back. _"We called you Father! How could you do that to us? You even did it to your own kid! How could you do that?"_

He is suddenly claustrophobic. With the swift reflexes born of hours of baseball practice he ducks under Goren's arm and is in the living room, breathing hard. Shakily he reaches for his coffee. "You don't understand," he says, sitting down as his legs give out. "You don't know what happened."

"Then tell me." Goren crouches before him, those strong, long-fingered hands on the armrests of the chair. "Explain it to me, Mike, why you tell yourself you don't want me when you do. Why every time I get achingly close you push me away again. Tell me why you're afraid. Who hurt you?"

Logan shudders involuntarily. "It's in the past."

"But not forgotten." Goren's breath is warm on Logan's hands. The scent of coffee rises into his face, the steam oddly comforting. "Let me tell you a story," he says abruptly, and strides across the room. He sits down on the couch, rubs his hands together, and stands again to pace.

"In Greek myth, Mnemosyne was the goddess of memory. She was the keeper of the waters of Lethe, which had the power to make you forget, to forget even the most heinous things you had experienced. When you died, before you could get to the Elysian Fields, you had to drink from her fountain." Goren's gaze is fixed on Logan, dark and intense. "So you could forget. Only by forgetting could you accept that you were dead and move on, be happy in paradise."

Logan's heartbeat is uncomfortably fast. He can hear nothing else except Goren's mesmerizing voice.

"What are you gonna do, Mike?" Goren is down on one knee before him, one hand braced on the chair next to Logan's thigh. "You gonna accept that things are different now? That I'm not whoever hurt you? You gonna drink from Mnemosyne's waters? Or have I come to the wrong place for paradise?"


	3. Chapter 3

Logan can't breathe. His eyes are watering. He feels his face crumple and, mortified, tries to cover it with his hands, but Goren is holding his wrists. "You're an Irish Catholic," Goren says, and the workings of his brain are almost audible – as the last of his lucidity flees Logan thinks he can hear the gears turn inside that head. "It was a priest, wasn't it?" His voice is so calm. Calm and insistent. "Mike? Was it a priest?"

Logan's shoulders shake uncontrollably. He cannot stop himself. The memories play over and over in his head, the legacy of a past that was never beautiful, and he pitches forward into Goren's waiting arms. The other detective holds him, locks him in an embrace that is warm and comforting and the only thing that is real to Logan in this moment. A large hand cradles his head against Goren's shoulder, and Logan is crying like a six-foot-two baby. He feels like his world has been torn apart anew, like all the baggage of old is crashing down on him again, and he feels just as helpless as he did the first time around.

"It's over," Goren whispers, and his arms are so strong and his body so solid that Logan almost believes him. "I would never hurt you, Mike, don't you know that? Jesus." He rocks Logan like a child, and Logan clings to him like one. "I love you. Forever in your eyes and all the clichés – I never thought those things would make any sense to me, but they do now."

Logan can only cry harder. His face, where it is buried in Goren's shoulder, is probably bright red and streaked with tears. Logan is an ugly crier, he's always been. And he thinks, a little irrationally – which is strange, because Logan has always been logical – that if Goren can see what he looks like when he's crying and not run away screaming, maybe he really does love him.

He takes a deep breath, his body shuddering, and lifts his head, scrubbing at his face with the heels of both hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, his voice catching, and swallows tightly. "I'm a mess. I can't – I can't –"

What is he going to say? That he can't love Goren, that he can't give him an untouched heart? That his soul – if Logan even _has_ a soul after his wild past – is in a thousand pieces and very likely can't be put back together again? That no matter what happens, it's only going to be temporary, another one-night stand, another notch in Logan's virtual bedpost? That he _can't_ love?

Because that's bullshit and Logan knows it. He can love, and he does. He loves Goren. Blindly, completely and perhaps insanely, but he does love him. More than he thought possible. With more of himself than he knew existed prior to that kiss outside the federal prison in the rain.

"You can't what?" Goren lifts both hands to Logan's face and, with his thumbs, erases the paths Logan's tears have made on their way down from his eyes. The gesture is a simple act of tenderness, so pure and devoid of nefarious intent that Logan almost begins to cry again. "You can't what, Mike? I'm not going to ask you for more than you can give."

Logan manages a smile, trying with a monumental effort to regain some modicum of composure, and succeeds partially. "I can't forget," he says at last. "I can never forget." Goren's hands fall from Logan's face at those words, but Goren himself does not move, does not even breathe. Logan studies the floor intently for a moment, but his eyes are drawn back up to Goren's eyes. Like milk chocolate. Like coffee. Like nothing Logan has ever seen.

"But I love you." Logan's voice breaks. "I...love you."

Goren looks at him with that gentleness, and smiles. It is like the sun breaking through the darkest clouds imaginable, and the smile does more to warm Logan's heart and dry his eyes than he thought a facial expression ever could. Goren asks simply, "What are you going to do?"


	4. Chapter 4

For a moment Logan isn't quite sure how to answer that question. He hesitates, tries to speak, fumbles over the words and then sighs in frustration. He lets his head fall into his hands, his fingertips massaging his temples in slow circles. His fingers brush over his eyebrows, run down along his nose and smooth out over his cheeks until they slide from his face.

"I don't know," he says honestly, and looks at the clock next to the chair. The glowing numbers tell him it is just past six. Where did the time go? "But I think this is a pretty good place to start." He reaches for the phone and, unbelievably, inexplicably, Mike Logan does the unthinkable...and calls in sick.

A slow smile spreads across Goren's face. "Never would have thought it of you," he remarks, and taking the cordless from Logan's slack fingers, proceeds to do a wonderful imitation of someone dying from tuberculosis. When he sets the phone down again, he is sitting on the couch and the hacking cough and croaky voice are gone. "You're so thrilled to not be tracking down stolen lawnmowers on Staten Island anymore, I figured I'd never get you to call in sick."

"Work isn't everything," Logan says softly, not meeting Goren's eyes. He doesn't know how to face this beautiful man, or how to reconcile the horrors of his past with his growing desire. His throat constricts, and he falls silent. It is only with an effort that he can speak again. "So what now?"

"That's up to you, Mike." Goren drinks from his coffee. Logan loves his lips. The way Goren speaks has to be the most attractive thing about him – the sudden changes of cadence and tone accompanied by facial expressions that flash from sympathy to disgust in the blink of an eye, the very unpredictability of any given conversation. "What do you want to do?"

A thousand ideas flit through Logan's befuddled brain. He picks up his own coffee to buy time, making a great show of sipping it thoughtfully. All he can think about is Goren. Goren on the job, Goren talking to suspects on the street, Goren in the interrogation room. "I just want to be with you," he says at last, and as he looks up, he knows it is the right answer.

Goren spreads his arms. It is an easy gesture, full of meaning without coming across as supercilious. Logan admires that about him, Goren's ability to use his body and to employ movement and gesticulation without ever seeming grotesque. "Then be with me." Goren pats the couch next to him. "I don't bite. Usually."

Logan's knees are weak as he stands. He moves himself and his coffee across the room to the couch and as he sinks into the comfortable material, realizes he is brain-dead. He feels tongue-tied, stupid. He can think of a million things to say but cannot bring himself to voice any of them. He opens his mouth and the words die unspoken when his eyes meet the endless depths of Goren's. And suddenly he is mad with desire.

With a trembling hand Logan strokes Goren's cheek, follows the curve of his chin, his thumb just grazing the swell of the lower lip. He is totally, breathtakingly transfixed by Goren's mouth. Logan feels himself get ready to become a puddle on the floor, to liquefy completely just looking at the man, just barely touching him. He shudders momentarily, takes a breath, and before he can stop himself, leans in and presses his mouth against Goren's. It is light pressure, returned by the other detective, and there is no wild scramble for tongue, no sense of invasion or hurry. There is just the sensation and the moment and utter comfort in the kiss.

They are breathing in time. "Can you feel my heartbeat inside you?" Goren murmurs against Logan's lips, and Logan is almost positive he is dreaming. "The slow, steady pulse of my love? Melt into me, Mike. Surrender completely and know I would never hurt you. I want you to trust me...with your every thought...I would scour the world to answer your every wish."

His hands skim lightly up Logan's chest and his fingers lace behind Logan's head, pulling him down. And every one of Logan's senses sharpens to razor accuracy until he is surrounded by Goren, until his whole body is aching, until he stops thinking entirely.

Logan leans into Goren, fully returning his gentle kisses, and when he breaks a kiss for a necessary breath the faint sunlight streaming in through the window catches Goren's eyes and turns them to darkest gold. He is painfully aware of Goren's nearness, of their knees pressed against each other as they sit awkwardly on the edge of the couch. His clothes, the only thing separating him from Goren, feel thin and inadequate. He yearns to feel skin on skin, to hold the other man in his arms, kiss the smooth suppleness of Goren's shoulder, lose himself in Goren's soft thick hair.

"Mike," Goren whispers. "I love you. I tried not to for so long, I..." His voice cracks, and Logan is awed at the effect he has on this man, the epitome of calm, cool and collected, the perfectly controlled and always emotionally secure Goren. "I can't stop," he finishes with breathtaking honesty.

Logan threads his fingers into Goren's hair, traces the lines of his forehead and ultimately smiles. "You don't have to stop." He leans his forehead against Goren's. The other man is warm, reassuringly real. This is not a dream. "I hope you never stop."

Goren's eyes are glinting and dark, so intense it makes his breath catch, and Logan is starting to learn that means desire. Goren leans in, bends his head and places a single, soulmelting kiss on the side of Logan's neck. He rests his lips against Logan's skin, breathing lightly, and says softly, "You're so beautiful."

Logan touches Goren's face, and Goren lifts his head. He kisses Logan, insistently, and Logan responds with blind, wonderful passion, stoking the heat between them until Logan feels sweat begin to bead on his forehead. He draws back, breathless, and dimly realizes that Goren is unbuttoning his shirt. He welcomes the cool air on his chest as the shirt falls to the floor, and then gasps as Goren's fingers find more nerve endings than he thought he possessed.

Goren fixes Logan with a stare that builds fire in his veins, and reclines on the couch, pulling Logan down on top of him. Goren drops light kisses along Logan's collarbone to the hollow of his throat, his fingertips caressing Logan's chest, and Logan thinks he could die happy. Slowly, Logan is divested of his clothing until Goren's hands can run the full length of his body uninterrupted, and finally Logan's fingers are permitted access to their goal – the belt of Goren's robe.


	5. Chapter 5

Goren sees the look in Logan's eyes and is astute enough even in his half-crazed state of need to see the fear also present in those dark, glimmering emerald orbs. It is something only he could see; anyone else would have been too preoccupied to notice. He reaches for Logan's hands, stills their movement against his chest. Gently he draws Logan to him and ever so tenderly, with unhurried motions and the sweetest kisses, lulls him into a perfect calm. And then, with exquisite gentleness, Goren allows Logan to remove the last article of clothing, and they are both naked of anything save the burning fire that is their love.

"I love you," Logan whispers, the words only half spoken, caught between a shuddering breath and a groan of desire. It is more than a sentence, more than mere words. It is a promise, a vow, a declaration of passion unending and a pledge of infinite heaven.

Goren's hands are on his shoulders, clinging to him, his fingernails raising small scratches on Logan's skin. Goren is everywhere he should be – around him, inside him, like the most natural thing in the world. The smell of love rises between them, dark and sensual, and before Logan knows what's happening he's lost control. Oblivion claims him; he falls into nothingness. He closes his eyes, weightless and free. He has never been happier in his life.

Goren stirs some time later to find Logan nestled against him, one hand splayed on his chest. He follows the creases of Logan's wide forehead, kisses them smooth. His heart fills to bursting, overwhelmed by his love for the man in his arms, by the sheer symphonic beauty they created when their bodies became one. He finds tears in his eyes and does not brush them away as they course slowly down his cheek.

But how can they hide something so consuming? From Deakins, from Eames, from Barek...Goren gives an internal grimace as he imagines Eames' reaction. Of course, to give her credit, she might simply roll with it and move on. But what if she doesn't?

_Someone's going to find out. We can't hide this forever._ Goren cradles his sleeping lover in his arms, very aware of the treasure he holds. _I can't lose him. Not now, not after all the rigmarole it took to get him in the first place. I'll never let him go._

Goren has been afraid exactly twice before in his life. The first time was when, at the tender age of nine, he had realized, in Nicole's words, that his mommy wasn't like all the other mommies. The second was when he heard Judge Garrett had sent a private investigator to interrogate his mother. There had been anger, yes, violent rage unlike anything he had felt in recent times, but also fear. Fear of what the cheap stunt had cost his mother in terms of progress and stability.

And now, suddenly, Goren is afraid again.


	6. Epilogue

The morning air is fresh and clean as Logan pushes open the door of the station house, and then his nostrils are assaulted by the combined scents of coffee, twenty-three different colognes, sixteen different aftershaves and stale cigarette smoke. He makes straight for his desk, nodding briskly to Barek, who is pouring out her caffeine buzz, as he passes her. He is almost to his desk – which is flooded with papers, he should've known he'd get paperwork in his absence – and thinks he is home free, but then he hears Eames' distinctive voice as clear as a bell across the ringing of phones and shuffling of folders.

"Logan!" He half-turns without meaning to and curses himself inside. "How are you feeling? Heard you called in sick yesterday."

"I'm great," he says with feigned nonchalance and grabs the top folder from the shapeless pile on his desk. Barek's side is pristine. "Now, if you don't mind –"

"Bobby called in sick too." Eames is leaning on the edge of his desk, one hand on the stack of folders. Her face has an unaccountably smug expression on it. "Not two minutes after you did. The switchboard said both calls were made from the same phone."

_How the hell does she – oh, right. She's a detective._ Logan could kill himself now. "We were out drinking, remember?" He is scrambling for excuses, but to give him credit, the words are coming out smooth and clean. "I took him home after. He knocked out on my couch. Neither of us were in any shape to come to work after that."

"Yeah?" Eames is smirking. "Funny, you seemed pretty sober when I left. And didn't you take him home? That kind of coordination...come on, Logan, who are you trying to kid? You weren't drunk."

"I wasn't feeling well," he grinds impatiently, wanting to wipe the smirk off her face with the back of his hand, and opening the folder, holds it up in front of his face. Which means he misses Bobby Goren's extremely entertaining entrance.

Goren throws open the door with what is unusual exuberance even for him and strides through Major Case, shoulders thrown back and chest thrust out, with what must be the last vestiges of his militarism from his time in the army. His brown notebook is clutched tightly in his right hand, and there is a half-grin that no one can account for on his face. His gaze is fixed on the air in front of him, and he whistles as he walks. His hair looks like it hasn't been brushed in ages and he is unshaven, but he looks happier than he's ever been in his life. _Or_, as Logan thinks with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, _like he's just been laid sixty ways to Sunday_.

"Hey, Bobby." Eames slides off Logan's desk, looking like Christmas has come early. "Mike here was just telling me about your misadventures last night."

"Hmm?" Goren does a double-take. He squints at his partner as though he has no earthly idea what she's talking about, and in that moment Logan loves Goren for his ability to change expression without the slightest prior notice. "What misadventures? My night on the couch, you mean?"

Eames gives Goren a conspiratorial look. "C'mon, Bobby. You're not fooling anyone with that innocent act. Did you two pick up a girl and do the French thing or didn't you?"

Goren's expression flashes to that of a deer caught in headlights, and Logan has an idea that he must be looking the same way. "The French thing," Goren says slowly. "You mean a _ménage à trois_? A threesome? Me and Logan? Are you _kidding_ me?"

Logan, unable to contain himself, bursts out laughing, which after a moment sets Goren off as well. Soon Eames is giggling at the two men acting like idiots, and Barek cannot help but join in. Which of course brings Deakins out of his office to see what the matter is and why the hell his four pet detectives are cackling like Macbeth's witches.

"You four," he says, and they look so comical that it is hard for him to be stern. "In my office. Now."

He closes the door behind them and stands behind his desk, arms folded, waiting patiently for them to sober up. Which they do. "What on earth is the matter with you four? It's quarter to eight in the morning, don't tell me you've all shot up on crack already?" Barek lets out a stray hiccup of laughter, which has Logan trying unsuccessfully to muffle a snort. "Okay, I don't know if you guys realize this, but I do require an explanation."

Logan masters his face at last and peels the smile off. "I'm sorry, sir. Private joke. Eames' fault."

"Very unfunny," Goren deadpans. "But hilarious in its humourlessness."

Deakins raises one eyebrow in stark amazement, and looks at Eames for confirmation or denial. Logan holds his breath. What she says could damn or save them. He exchanges a barely noticeable glance with Goren, whose features are absolutely calm.

"Don't worry about it, sir," Eames says easily. "It's nothing." Barek nods in agreement, and bewildered and unsatisfied, Deakins nonetheless releases them back into the hustle and bustle of the plaza.

Logan sinks into his chair with an audible sigh of relief. Barek takes her place opposite him. Her dark eyes meet his, and she gives him a queer little smile. And he knows instantly that she knows.

"Don't worry about it, Mike," she tells him familiarly, looking at him through the steam rising from her coffee. "Some things are best left unspoken. That way if asked, I can freely declare that I have no idea about them. Plausible deniability." She slides a folder across the table to him and smiles ever so slightly, chewing on the end of a pen. "Besides, Deakins is on a need-to-know basis."

Logan thinks he could hug her.

Over at the Goren-Eames table, a similar conversation is about to take place. Goren, who has launched directly into his backlog, gets off the phone at last and moves to open the laptop but is stopped by Eames' small hand. "Bobby," she says seriously, "I'm not an idiot. I know."

He looks up at her, careful not to let his face show emotion. "And?" he asks very calmly.

"And as long as you keep it off the job, I can't see a problem." Eames offers a faint smile. "And if you want us to be even..." She leans forward and whispers the most surprising thing he has heard for the year into his left ear.

Goren's eyebrows rise slowly. "Really..." He nods. "I never would have thought it."

"Likewise," his partner says dryly. "You don't look the type. Logan either. But I guess none of us knows each other like we thought we did, hmm? Seeing as everybody just shocked the life out of everybody else?"

Goren shakes his head. Her confession, while it initially surprised him, doesn't bother him in the least. Just as his didn't bother her. "No."

"Great." Eames smiles swiftly and resumes her seat. They work in silence for a while, and when she deems it safe she flicks a deceptively casual glance over at Barek, who gives Eames an answering smile that threatens to paralyze her.

Goren and Logan, you see, aren't the only ones with secrets.


End file.
